


We

by Catchclaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, College, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sterek Campaign Teen Wolf Charity Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are lots of things Derek's willing to admit about himself: his devotion to police procedurals, for example. Or his love of Corn Pops. Or even, when pressed, how much he loves it when Stiles is right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elegantlydisastrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantlydisastrous/gifts).



> For elegantlydisastrous, who bid for me in the Sterek Charity Campaign Auction last fall and waited so patiently for this story to be completed. Many thanks.

There are lots of things that Derek's willing to admit about himself: his irrational love of Corn Pops, for instance. Or the reassurance he takes from knocking on wood or throwing salt over his shoulder. Or even, when pressed, all the ways that he feels about Stiles: love lust exasperation, need delight and everlasting adoration; under the right circumstances, he'll cop to each and every one.

But he's loathe to admit that he's getting old, even though the evidence is staring him in the face, tiny little letters on the page that don’t make sense unless he squints.

Stiles looks up from his laptop. "There a problem?"

"What?" Derek says, shaking the novel he's holding like a dishrag. "No."

Stiles pitches up from where he's sprawled on the couch, straight-faced, but Derek can smell his amusement.

"Oh. Ok. Because you always growl at printed material. Silly me. How could I forget?"

"I was not growling," Derek says, crosseyed, trying not to knead at his temples. "You're hearing things."

Which is the worst way to get Stiles to drop it, implying that he's in the wrong, because they both know Derek only does that when he's lying, tries to throw Stiles off the scent. Somehow, it never really works out the way Derek keeps hoping it will: Stiles nodding and going back to his Fruit Ninja or history paper or whatever it is he's on the sofa hiding behind.

Instead, he can practically see Stiles' nose twitching, his eyes get bright with the hunt for Whatever Derek's Hiding and—crap. 

This is why, he thinks as Stiles lopes over, plucks the book right out of his hands, he should be studying at the damn library. That's what college kids do, isn't it? Drink cheap coffee and curl up in cracked leather armchairs and imbue the wisdom of the ages—in the freaking _library_. That's where Derek should be, then, in what is by rights, as of three weeks ago, his natural habitat.

"What the hell," Stiles says, his eyes jumping over the cover. "Is this for class?"

There was a time, lo not too long ago, when Derek would have just grabbed the book or the weapon or the cooking utensil out of Stiles' hands and bolted out of the room, ended the conversation right there. But he likes to think he's evolved, has learned something about "communication" and "openness" and "not being a closed-door broody wolf with a stick up his ass" and with that knowledge in hand, he can sit here calmly, with minimal twitching, and "talk it out."

"Of course it's for class," he snaps, sounding more pissed that he should be, because Stiles hasn't done anything wrong. It's not his fault that Derek's getting old, that his eyes feel like they've been shredded and jammed back into his skull. That, as a consequence, he doesn't remember a damn thing he's read in the last twenty minutes, and that. is. infuriating because Derek hates wasting time.

Stiles just nods, head bobbing as he skims the back of the book. "Huh. It's translated from Russian, huh? Yeesh." He shudders and tosses the thing in Derek's direction. "Anyway, it sounds like a rip-off of _1984_."

The book, _We_ , it hits Derek in the knees and bounces into his lap. "Orwell ripped off this Russian guy, actually," he says through his teeth. "It was published in the 1920s."

"Wow," Stiles says, total bullshit bright. "That is so not interesting." 

He's in Derek's lap, too, before Derek can answer. He skips long fingers over Derek's temple and nudges the book out of the way.

"Still doesn't explain the growling," he says. Gentle, now. "Or why you're squinting like that. I mean"—he does a little peacock dance, twitch of his hips and no-longer bony shoulders—"I know I'm hot, dude, but I try to turn down the corona of awesome every once and awhile. Don't want to wake up the neighbors, you know? Or make you go blind."

He's doing that thing where his smile and his touch are simpatico, syncopated, and they both know that the wolf always goes jelly for that. So Derek's not losing anything, really, when he closes his eyes and tips his face up to meet Stiles' hand. 

"So considerate," he says, his grunt cut in two by his smile.

Stiles hums something he can't place and shifts, settles down deeper into Derek's lap, so deep that Derek has to hold him, twist his hands into Stiles' belt to keep him from pitching over. 

"You know what I think?" Stiles says, tapping Derek's forehead gently. "I think you need some glasses."

"Clearly," Derek says, craning his neck and catching Stiles' chin with his lips. "That would explain why I'm attracted to you. Having terrible eyesight."

Stiles snorts. "Bitch, please. I'm so out of your league."

Derek laughs and opens his eyes. Gets one hand on Stiles' neck and grins up into his face. 

Stiles is flushed and sort of gleeful. Hell, he's breathless and Derek hasn't even kissed him yet, hasn't stroked his back or petted his hair, hasn't hit any of the 800 buttons that Stiles' body seems to have for him, and yet, the kid is already panting. 

No question: this argument's won. There'll be no discussion of his incoming bodily frailties tonight, if Stiles' squeak as Derek cups him easy through his jeans is any indication. Yes. Point: Derek Hale.

"No, but," Stiles says, the words struggling valiant as Derek tugs at his zipper. "You, uh— _Derek_ , I think you need, no—oh, god. That's—" He bucks into Derek's palm, his cock almost as red as his face. "That's good. Yeah. I so need you to be doing that right now, Derek, _jesus_."

He's the only person Derek's ever slept with who radiates contentment while they fuck. Pleasure and lust, sure, with a shot of two of love, that's there, too, but Stiles is so damn happy in bed—or in the Camaro, on the kitchen table, wherever—that even after all these years, it does something to Derek when the kid gets all smiley under his hands. Stiles' grin, the way his moans hitch up into giggles when he gets really turned on—they unlock some secret black box of joy in Derek's heart that he never knew was there.

Until the first time Stiles kissed him.

Stiles' senior year. The night of his prom, for Christ's sake, a night he should've been out celebrating his own survival. Scott's. Allison's. The whole crew. Because somehow, despite the best efforts of every evil thing in a 500-mile radius, it seemed like, all of Stiles' friends—Derek's pack—had made it through. In a week, they'd get their diplomas and start scattering to places both known and very much unexpected: Boyd to UCLA, Lydia to Berkeley, Allison to art school in France. Scott was taking a year off, Erica thought she was gonna be an actress—each and every one had the luxury of making plans. 

Derek had worked pretty fucking hard to see to that.

So when Stiles showed up at the loft in a tux, his expression openly terrified, Derek had this terrible flash that everything had all been for naught, that a freaking kaiju or a Carrie wannabe had stumbled onto the dance floor and destroyed the whole senior class.

That was why he'd opened the door all the way, why he'd grabbed Stiles' elbow and yanked when the kid didn't move, just stood there shell-shocked and uneasy.

"Stiles, what—?" Derek had said, towing the kid inside. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I, um," Stiles had stuttered, the bloom in his cheeks brighter than his boutonnière, a rose the color of apples, the smell warm and sweet, and oh, Derek realized, relieved. He didn't smell like blood. Stiles wasn't hurt. He wasn't scared for his life, or in imminent danger of some terrible bodily harm.

He was—

He was twisting in Derek's grip, the scratch of his suit catching on Derek's palm. 

He was pressing their bodies together, one hand on Derek's neck, insistent and greedy. 

He was kissing Derek, nudging his tongue at Derek's mouth and moaning until Derek let him inside.

It wasn't like he'd never thought about it. What it would be like to kiss Stiles, to touch him. What the kid's skin would taste like, what sounds he'd make as Derek got him hard. But keeping everyone safe, relatively, took up most of Derek's headspace, his thinking, and that'd left little room for his considerations of Stiles to stray beyond the bounds of sleep, of his dreams.

He'd never bothered to wonder before if Stiles might have wanted him, too.

"You don't—" Stiles gasped what felt like days later. "Damn. You don't know how long I've needed to do that. I'm—" 

He leaned back a little, the heels of his hands pressed into the support column on either side of Derek's head, the column in front of the kitchen he'd managed to pin Derek against. It was an odd angle, for a moment, overwhelming, for all Derek could see were Stiles' eyes, a double vision of dark matter soaked in sunshine. 

"I walked in there tonight," Stiles said, a little steadier. "To the dance, ok, and I just — it hit me. Seeing all those couples or whatever, like, swaying to bad 80s remixes and holding on to each other like they were gonna drown if they weren't touching, if they didn't have each right then. I thought —"

Derek petted his face, a little shot of assent that made Stiles' eyes flicker. "What?" he said, soft. "What did you think?"

"I thought," Stiles said, dreamy, " _Derek isn't here. So who's gonna hold me like that_?"

Derek slid his hands under Stiles' tuxedo jacket, into the heat of the kid's body that had pooled there at the base of his spine. "But I've never—"

"Exactly! You hadn't. And I figured, if I didn't do something about that, or try, then you never would, and I just—" 

His breath stuttered and he wound himself in, pressed his chest into Derek's like if they weren't touching, they were both gonna drown. "That really happened, right?" he said. "Us kissing? Derek. You're really—?"

Derek grinned against Stiles' cheek. The kid tasted like fruit punch and mint gum, his own blend of sugar and spice.

"I am," Derek whispered. "It did."

And that was the first time Stiles had outright laughed like that in his arms, the first time he went smiley and pleased and casually kicked over all of Derek's hard-won defenses, all the ones that had reassured him for years that it was better this way, to be lonely, because no one would ever want him like that again. 

"What's so funny?" Derek had said, his lips chasing after Stiles' smile. "Stiles. I don't—"

And Stiles had kissed him again, this one short and sharp, and said: "You make me happy, asshole."

"Oh," Derek said, the surprise so flush in his mouth that he didn't notice Stiles peeling him off the column and nudging him in the direction of the bed until he was flat on his back and the kid was over him, smirking, tearing at his bow tie and popping the studs on his shirt, one by one, until he tossed the whole mess on the floor and stretched out over Derek, his skin sweet and hot to the touch.

"I just fucked up my rental," Stiles breathed, rocking his hips in time with a slow, sneaky grin. "Totally blew my deposit there, ok? So you better make this worth my while, Hale.”

Three years and thousands of kisses later, hell. It never got old, the outright joy that Stiles took in each touch. 

Here, now, in the living room of their second apartment, they can fuck in the armchair that Stiles' dad gave them, the one from his old house that Melissa gently suggested might be happier elsewhere. The upholstery is full of holes and threadbare on the arms, and there's that ketchup stain on the back that Stiles swears his dad put there, not him, but the cushions are worn in all the right places for Derek to hold Stiles like this, to prop him upright with one arm and jerk him off with the other while Stiles moans through a grin that lights up his face. One that always makes Derek smile. 

"Yeah," he says, pitching his voice to wolf just to feel Stiles squirm. "That's it. Come on, baby. Let me see it."

Stiles whips away from him like a wave, the curve of his body a cosine to his cock in Derek's fist. "God,” he wheezes. “ _God_ , that's—" 

His fists find the arms of the chair and dig in, his hips working like they do when he's fucking Derek, when Derek's facedown on the bed, overwhelmed and desperate with the sound of Stiles crashing into him, their hands wound together under the pillows, both of them gasping for air.

"Oh," Stiles moans, and he's there, he's right there, Derek can feel it, that pulse of blood peaking under his hand. "Oh god oh god oh—"

Stiles gets a hand on Derek's shoulder, fingers snagging in his t-shirt, and comes messy and thick, a beautiful terror who whines and laughs and shakes. He pitches down while he's still dripping, still pumping over Derek's wrist. His kisses are drunken and sloppy and he's smiling. God. Yes, he is.

Derek gets a wet palm on the kid's neck and holds him, keeps his head steady so their mouths stay in the same zip code. Mostly. 

"We—" Stiles slurs. "Can we take this party upstairs, dude? 'Cause I really want you to fuck me. Please."

He shuffles forward until the chair’s groaning, presses himself in as if he can get any closer. As if they can. As if Derek is capable of a coherent fucking thought right then, pinned in the damn armchair by the man that he loves, that makes him happier than he's ever been in his life, can think anything other than _yesnowplease_ , but—

There’s something digging into his side. Something that is definitely not attached to him. 

He must make a face because Stiles sees it, whatever it is that's stabbing him in the ribs. 

"Hey," Stiles says, dragging the thing out from between the cushions. "Look. It's your book. Your Russian homework-y thing."

Just looking at the cover, that split-second of glance, makes it all come rushing back: the pages that Derek's read, but really hasn't. All the fucking tiny print-bearing pages that are still left to go before his 8 AM class.

"Oh, hell," he groans, letting his head fall back until he's staring at plaster, at the three coats of eggshell he spent a week putting up in the spring. "Stiles. I can't. That book's due tomorrow. I have to finish it."

"What? Derek," Stiles says, incredulous. "Seriously? You're not serious. You'll take your novel whatever over sex? Did I mention that it's sex with _me_?"

Derek hides his face behind his hand. The clean one.

"Baby, I'm sorry. There's a—there's gonna be a quiz, ok? I have to read it."

There's a rush and a thud that says Stiles just threw the book at the wall. 

"Dude," he sighs. "Look. First rule of college—take it from your friendly neighborhood 3-credits-from-his-BA guy: you don't have to do all the reading."

"There's a _quiz_ ," Derek growls at the ceiling. "For a _grade_ , Stiles."

He lets Stiles pry open his hand and tug his head up straight. There, above him, Stiles' lips are twitching like crazy and he smells like he's on the verge of a cackling fit. 

"There's a reason God made Spark Notes,” he says. “And that reason is so that you can have hot monkey sex with your unreasonably attractive boyfriend rather than squint at a novel all night."

"I was not squinting," Derek huffs.

"Were too," Stiles says, not disagreeably. He taps Derek on the nose. "Now. I'm gonna go upstairs. In five minutes, I'm gonna be naked and getting pretty friendly with some lube and some very dirty thoughts about you. You’re welcome to join me. If you choose not to, I won't hold it against you. Too much. Ok? ‘Cause, not gonna lie: the super-student thing is kinda hot."

His mouth is over Derek's before Derek can answer, an easy kiss with a hint of promise.

There are lots of things Derek's willing to admit about himself: his devotion to police procedurals, for examples. Or the pleasure he takes in beating Stiles at _Scrabble_. Or even, when pressed, how much he loves it when Stiles is right.

"You're right," he says when they break. "We should have sex."

Stiles beats up him up the stairs, only just.

Later, when Stiles is passed out and still giggling in his sleep, Derek makes it through the Wikipedia page for _We_ in 45 minutes.

And if he increases the text size three or four times, nobody but him is the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: "Established Sterek, Derek finally going back to school when he sees Stiles enjoying college so much. It's awkward and he doesn't feel too great about it until Stiles helps ease him into it. Bonus points if Derek starts wearing nerdy glasses."


End file.
